I hated Marla Singer since she killed the only relief I had in support groups and thereby bringing back my insomnia. I hated her more when she came to our home, as if beckoned by Tyler subconciously, and stole Tyler away from me. I hated only Marla. I didn't blame Tyler, though I knew he was what brought her here.
I couldn't blame Tyler.
I attended Fight Club with Tyler, as if we were hosts to a party, though the guests had gotten there first. I walked behind Tyler, down the paint-chipped steps into the basement. I watched the eager faces of the "members" as they watched Tyler's hand slide down the broken banister. Their faces looked hungry, as if the punches thrown at them were all they ate. When Tyler's feet hit the basement floor, I could almost see the micro hairs stiffen on their necks.
Tyler walked into the center of the room, and I lost myself in the crowd before him. He stood as if he was the ref in a wrestling ring, his arms crossed. He was Fight Club's god, and the punches thrown were worship to Tyler.
He began to recite the rules of Fight Club, when I smelled the scent of strong smoke. Not smoke from a grill or a fireplace. A cheap, artificial smoke that only came from cheap cigarettes was what filled my nostrils. I looked around to see who was producing the smoke.
My stomach dropped like an elevator. Marla Singer stood at the back of the crowd, a cigarette hanging from her lip. She crossed her arms over her thrift store, fishnet top. Her hair looked like a fresh roadkill wig. Why was she here? Did she hear word from the bartender? Were girls even allowed in Fight Club?
Then a thought came into my mind. What if Tyler invited her? It was possible. But then again, it wasn't. Had Tyler violated the possible rule of "no girls" and invited her? He just wouldn't do it. I began to understand that the relationship between Marla and Tyler may be a long-time relationship.
I didn't want her here. I only wanted Tyler and Fight Club. She had taken over both, just as she had taken over my relief in support groups. She didn't have testicular cancer or any morbid disease. She didn't need Tyler. She didn't need Fight Club.
I heard Tyler finish with the last rule of Fight Club: "If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight." Everyone began to take off their shoes and shirts, of course with the exception of Marla, who only took off her shoes.
I glanced at Marla. I knew this was her first attendance to Fight Club. I had attended every "meeting". She would have to fight. I wanted her to lose.. To show everyone that she was weak.
Tyler looked at Marla. "You're new. Fight." He said, beckoning her to the center of the room with a finger, then stepping away from the crowd and into the shadows of the basement. I knew why he didn't call her by her name. I knew what Tyler knew. He didn't want his members to know they had a sexual relationship, because if so, they would accuse him of mercy if he ever fought one-on-one with her. We wanted all fights fair.
I saw Marla look at me. I looked away, pretending I hadn't seen her stare. She walked into the center of the room, her eyes still on me. "Let's go." She said. I knew she was challenging me. I stood my ground. "Come on." She beckoned. Finally a strong hand guided me to the front of the crowd. I had no choice.
I took a fighting stance in from of her, my head bent slightly. She mirrored me, but cracking her neck menacingly, then winking. I didn't understand why she winked, but didn't care.
She was the first to throw a punch. Her fist planted itself into my stomach. Her punch forced me backwards, holding my stomach. Her punch fed my anger and adreniline. Instantly I shook it off, returning to my stance. I socked her right in the chin. She socked me back. Somehow my punches were slow and savoring, as if every punch was shaking off my hate for her little by little. Soon we were on the ground, fiercely throwing punches. My punches weren't slow and savoring anymore. They now existed only for the hunger of pain and blood, as did her own from the start of the fight.
Our fight seemed endless. "It's a draw." Tyler said, appearing from the shadows. I was a little startled. I had almost forgotten he was there. I heard him when Marla and I had gotten back on our feet. We were both bruised and bloody. I didn't bother shaking Marla's hand- I simply walked back into the crowd. Eventually, so did she.
The taste of blood in my mouth lingered. All I thought was: Will Marla be here tomorrow? And the next day? And the next?
I couldn't blame Tyler.
I attended Fight Club with Tyler, as if we were hosts to a party, though the guests had gotten there first. I walked behind Tyler, down the paint-chipped steps into the basement. I watched the eager faces of the "members" as they watched Tyler's hand slide down the broken banister. Their faces looked hungry, as if the punches thrown at them were all they ate. When Tyler's feet hit the basement floor, I could almost see the micro hairs stiffen on their necks.
Tyler walked into the center of the room, and I lost myself in the crowd before him. He stood as if he was the ref in a wrestling ring, his arms crossed. He was Fight Club's god, and the punches thrown were worship to Tyler.
He began to recite the rules of Fight Club, when I smelled the scent of strong smoke. Not smoke from a grill or a fireplace. A cheap, artificial smoke that only came from cheap cigarettes was what filled my nostrils. I looked around to see who was producing the smoke.
My stomach dropped like an elevator. Marla Singer stood at the back of the crowd, a cigarette hanging from her lip. She crossed her arms over her thrift store, fishnet top. Her hair looked like a fresh roadkill wig. Why was she here? Did she hear word from the bartender? Were girls even allowed in Fight Club?
Then a thought came into my mind. What if Tyler invited her? It was possible. But then again, it wasn't. Had Tyler violated the possible rule of "no girls" and invited her? He just wouldn't do it. I began to understand that the relationship between Marla and Tyler may be a long-time relationship.
I didn't want her here. I only wanted Tyler and Fight Club. She had taken over both, just as she had taken over my relief in support groups. She didn't have testicular cancer or any morbid disease. She didn't need Tyler. She didn't need Fight Club.
I heard Tyler finish with the last rule of Fight Club: "If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight." Everyone began to take off their shoes and shirts, of course with the exception of Marla, who only took off her shoes.
I glanced at Marla. I knew this was her first attendance to Fight Club. I had attended every "meeting". She would have to fight. I wanted her to lose.. To show everyone that she was weak.
Tyler looked at Marla. "You're new. Fight." He said, beckoning her to the center of the room with a finger, then stepping away from the crowd and into the shadows of the basement. I knew why he didn't call her by her name. I knew what Tyler knew. He didn't want his members to know they had a sexual relationship, because if so, they would accuse him of mercy if he ever fought one-on-one with her. We wanted all fights fair.
I saw Marla look at me. I looked away, pretending I hadn't seen her stare. She walked into the center of the room, her eyes still on me. "Let's go." She said. I knew she was challenging me. I stood my ground. "Come on." She beckoned. Finally a strong hand guided me to the front of the crowd. I had no choice.
I took a fighting stance in from of her, my head bent slightly. She mirrored me, but cracking her neck menacingly, then winking. I didn't understand why she winked, but didn't care.
She was the first to throw a punch. Her fist planted itself into my stomach. Her punch forced me backwards, holding my stomach. Her punch fed my anger and adreniline. Instantly I shook it off, returning to my stance. I socked her right in the chin. She socked me back. Somehow my punches were slow and savoring, as if every punch was shaking off my hate for her little by little. Soon we were on the ground, fiercely throwing punches. My punches weren't slow and savoring anymore. They now existed only for the hunger of pain and blood, as did her own from the start of the fight.
Our fight seemed endless. "It's a draw." Tyler said, appearing from the shadows. I was a little startled. I had almost forgotten he was there. I heard him when Marla and I had gotten back on our feet. We were both bruised and bloody. I didn't bother shaking Marla's hand- I simply walked back into the crowd. Eventually, so did she.
The taste of blood in my mouth lingered. All I thought was: Will Marla be here tomorrow? And the next day? And the next?